Eyes open, mouth shut

We've been in the car for a while, chasing the vacation ideal by trying to fit too many things in one day.  A sign ahead announces a roadside rest, and since we're on a two lane highway winding through the forest in Michigan's Upper Peninsula it seems like a good idea to stop for a moment.  The rest area isn't your typical interstate style restroom and direction source.  We spot a sign indicating trail to a waterfall and start walking down a wide, mulch covered pathway through the woods.  Families on vacation speed hike on towards the sound of falling water.  A bit of russet brown catches my eye beside the trail, and we stop.  A white tail deer fawn lies tucked beneath the branches of a low growing shrub just off the trail.  It lies there silently curled into an oval, eyes open wide, perhaps four feet from the groups of tourists walking by with their eyes focused on the falls ahead.  The leafy branches a foot above it's head provide scant cover, but it remains unnoticed. We linger down the trail about 30 feet watching the fawn, and watching the people.  Fifty go by, then another fifty.  The fawn appears safe.

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Sweat runs into my eyes for the twentieth time as I struggle.  I shrug my shoulder up to try and clear some of it away with my shirt without having to release my grip on the rock - not very effective unfortunately.  With one last yank it comes free from the jumble of earth, roots and rocks and I pull it towards the trail.  I'll need this rock, and about another 20 like it to finish the armoring on this part of our trail construction project.  Trying to figure out where this particular rock will fit, I rotate it around then flip it over.  The smoothly eroded surface on the back of the rock flows up in a warped plane, then is interrupted.  I take off my glove and brush away the dirt to reveal a branch about three inched in diameter, fossilized into the surface.  My fingers trace the contours, traveling to where it becomes enveloped by the rock, feeling the nub of an ancient knot.  When I place this rock into the trail surface I make sure it lies with the fossil upwards, just in case a sharp eye comes down the trail some day.

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We start up the hill at a good pace, but roots and gravity rob momentum faster than tired legs can replace it.  At the top I put down a foot and stop my bike to catch my breath.  My brother quietly says "Look up on that fallen tree."  Fifty feet away a broken tree trunk provides a horizontal platform where a harrier perches, his gaze fixed directly on us.  I'm surprised he doesn't fly off, then notice the small squirrel his talon pins to the tree trunk.  We don't move, and after a minute the bird reaches down and resumes feeding.  His hooked beak clamps onto the animal and pulls a long, red strip taut, till it snaps free and it disappears down his gullet.  Within another few minutes the meat is gone and it silently flies off into the woods.   I look at my brother with eyebrows raised.  He smiles and gets his bike moving down the trail again.

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The place smells.  The odor of dead fish and organic decay float on the breeze.  I dip my paddle into the still water and pull the kayak forward through the huge beaver pond.  Dead trees stick up through the swampy water here and there, drowned by the beavers habitat engineering.  Some areas are choked in yellow water lilies, with swarms of flies and mosquitoes flying into my face.  The whole place is just brimming with life - the air full of insects, tadpoles in the water along with bigger fish.  Frogs and songbirds fill the air with their calls.  A larger dead tree catches my attention with slow movement among the remnants of its branches and I paddle in that direction.  The breeze rustles the lilies, yet the sun is hot on my back as I draw closer.  I squint up into the branches, trying to figure out what it is that's hanging, slowly swinging in the breeze.  Suddenly it snaps into definition.  It's a dead great blue heron, mummified by the summer heat.  It hangs from one leg, with the foot caught in the fork of a dead branch.  I wonder how it got there - did it's foot get stuck somehow, or did it just die and fall into that fork?  The frogs go on endlessly and a crow calls from overhead.

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The trail ahead is faint, just barely a trace through the woods.  It's not a people trail, you can tell that by the fact that if often ducks under low branches that I have to move aside in order to proceed.  The tree cover is mostly maple, and small bogs lay here and there.  As the trail passes near one I get a glimpse of movement and see a muskrat vanish beneath the still, black waters.  Songbirds provide a constant background chorus, with the murmur of leaves in the slight breeze behind them.  I continue on as the trail becomes too slight to follow, keeping a watchful eye for areas of poison ivy.  I slowly make my way towards where I know the main trail lies, and then suddenly stop.  Ahead of me stands a yard tall stump of a long dead sapling.  Atop the ragged broken trunk sits an owl chick, perfectly still.  It's about the size of a tennis ball, fuzzy and soft looking, and silently looks at me.  I look at the trees above, but see no sign of a nest or mother owl.  The baby owl stares at me.

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Recent studies show that children are spending less time outdoors, with further decreases every year.  As the childhood obesity epidemic worsens, childhood health experts lament the lack of physical activities in the outdoors.  Recent studies show that American children on the average spend about 30 minutes per week of unstructured play time outdoors.  Studies also indicate that the amount of time spent by children outdoors in natural settings has drastically reduced, with many children getting basically zero exposure to the original natural environments  of their home areas.